Scribblings Of A Dramatic Introvert

I saw her again last night at the vigil; She’s just another spinster in the congregation. That’s what we all see, But something makes us all stare longer at her: Would it be her gait that strikes us peculiar? Cos I’m so sure it’s a whole lot odd. Probably because her feet are not those of a swan; For they fail to lift gracefully. She’s not pretty, you know; Her cheeks are quite sunken, And her cheekbones are an embarrassment to the conventional beauty they ought radiate. She can’t afford new cloths, So she wears her branded tee shirts with uncomfortably large skirts; Wrapping her legs in and sweeping almost noisily, Her traditional dresses fall off her shoulders, And this is in no way attractive. As her skin is all wrinkled over her collarbone; Her face gives her the appearance of a woman scorned in abject poverty, Fifteen years older below her eyes than she is. She places a pair of red rimmed plastic “prescription glasses” over the bridge of her nose And swears...

Ireti woke up with a start in the middle of the hardly silent night, sitting up on the makeshift bed they had created out of the only sofa in the one room apartment she lived in with her family. She looked around her and picked up her phone to check if it was near morning. The small screen of the TECNO “torchlight phone” brightened up and displayed 1:08. It was barely past midnight yet she couldn’t bring herself to sleep. Her feet swept on to the concrete floor covered in a patched up green carpet. The floor was a bit too warm as a result of the heat burnt out by the half a dozen of occupants in the room. She turned to her side, her eyes meeting the closed ones of her sister with whom she shared the sofa. There wasn’t electricity supply so the army of mosquitoes had arrived the room, whizzing in in their numbers from the uncovered overflowing gutters that passed just below their window. Knowing she couldn’t risk stepping around her younger siblings who were deep...